


with the heartbreak open, so much you can’t hide

by Astronomical_Aphrodite



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Morgan Lives, Arthur accidentally adopts a child, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Davey Callander Lives, Everybody Lives, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hosea Matthews Lives, Jake Adler Lives, Lenny Summers Lives, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It, because I love that nervous wreck of a man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23923156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astronomical_Aphrodite/pseuds/Astronomical_Aphrodite
Summary: Arthur Morgan was prepared to die.Apparently, fate deemed that unnecessary.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan & Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, Jack Marston & Arthur Morgan, Jake Adler/Sadie Adler, Karen Jones/Sean MacGuire, Molly O'Shea/Dutch van der Linde, Susan Grimshaw/Black Belle, Van Der Linde gang - Relationship
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Procrastination is my middle name, apparently.
> 
> I ain’t sure who Arthur’s gonna’ end up with in this one — so for now, just assume it’ll be anyone? I’ll add in a relationship tag for him whenever I decide who gets this cowboy’s heart. Arthur Morgan deserves LOVE.
> 
> Feel free to send me asks at [More Ghosts Than People](https://wannabecowpoke.tumblr.com/), my recently created tumblr made just for the purpose of doing headcanons, imagines, requests, asks, and anything else you could want related to RDR2.

Laying on a rocky outcrop and watching the sunrise, Arthur Morgan died.

Or rather, Arthur Morgan was prepared to die. He was ready — he had accepted it as inevitable, and through making peace with his death, he made peace with himself. It was the calmest he felt in years, and he was ready to move onto whatever happens after death, whether that was nothing or Hell, because he doubted he was going anywhere close to Heaven.

Heck, maybe he’d be reincarnated as a deer — he dreamed of them often enough. A _bluejay,_ maybe, or a golden eagle. Flying would be nice, he supposed, like that man in his crashed machine had been trying to do.

Arthur Morgan was almost thirty-six, would’ve been the next February, and he had seen more of the country in ten years than most folks did in their entire lifetimes. He’d loved and he’d lost, and he’d met hundreds of individuals as they lived their own stories, and he’d forged relationships that would outlast him. He wouldn’t be forgotten — he’d live on in John Marston and his family, in Jack’s memories of dear, old Uncle Arthur, who took him fishing and saved his family. 

What Arthur Morgan wasn’t prepared for was a man to come strolling up to him, pressed trousers tucked into polished leather boots. There were agents and law enforcement officers below, and the chilly mountain was no place for civilians to be, let alone after a massive conflict between infamous outlaws and the local government officials that were intent on their demise.

It took effort — he was sore, and suffocating in his own blood and phlegm — but he looked upwards, and found Francis Sinclair, arms crossed over his chest and mouth twisted in a fond smile. “You truly have found yourself behind the eight ball,” he mused, and Arthur squinted up at him, trying to make sense of what he just said. A noise left his lips, wheezy and plaintive, and Francis clucked his tongue. “You really did help me when I had the screws put on me,” he said, seemingly amused by his predicament, “so if you want a hand, this is my area of expertise right here. A favor for a favor, as my pop’ used to say.”

“I’m _dying,_ ” Arthur gritted out. He wondered if he was hallucinating the man, mind creating a distraction so his thoughts could be taken off his dying body, but everything was too vivid for that, too uncomfortable. It felt real, even if the logical part of his mind said it wasn’t. Regardless, if he was hallucinating anyone, it wouldn’t be Francis Sinclair, or at least he hoped not. “I— ya’ can’t help me.”

Francis chuckled, reaching into his satchel. “Don’t be such a _bluenose,_ sir,” he said, pulling out a platinum pocket watch with a strange symbol engraved on the back. It looked almost like some sort of emblem or sigil, but he couldn’t be sure through his blurry, quickly darkening vision. “Now, this might rather... _unpleasant,_ ” he said, starting to twist a knob on the watch, “but it’ll keep you from the Chicago overcoat, that’s for sure.”

“Wait, wha’?” Arthur asked, frowning.

“This is where I give you the kiss off,” Francis said cheerfully, shaking the pocket watch, “because it’s not often that I can sugar-talk my boss into forgiving me for breaking code! It helps that I’m the agency’s best man.”

When Arthur blinked and was suddenly left buried in cold snow, staring up at a stormy sky as the wind nipped at his nose and somebody called out his name, his vision was still swimming. He wondered if it was just a fever dream — Arthur thought that he’d died up there on that mountain in the East Grizzlies, but he wondered if he’d fallen asleep instead, and it was all just a vivid fantasy his mind invented so that he could go peacefully.

“Arthur!” The voice called again, and he was suddenly being pulled to his feet, the same person supporting him over his shoulder as his knees almost gave out again. With numb fingertips and blurry vision, he turned his head and maybe saw Hosea, although he wasn’t too sure. It was hard to tell when they were bundled up in their winter clothes, blonde with sharp edges and a worried frown. “Are you feeling alright, son?” The person asked again, and as their face entered Arthur’s field of vision, he could tell it actually _was_ Hosea.

Hosea, alive and well.

He almost started crying then and there.

“Hwu’h,” Arthur slurred brokenly instead, tongue feeling like lead in his mouth, and in an instant he was being dragged towards a wagon through a snowstorm, shoved up and into the back as the wagons kept moving. Breathing was difficult, just like it had been with the tuberculosis, but there wasn’t a wheeze and he couldn’t taste any blood in his mouth, which he supposed was a good thing. He looked to his right and found an unconscious Davey laying underneath a mountain of bedsheets, his breathing labored, and Arthur wondered if he was in hell — some strange, awful iteration of hell.

“Check on Arthur, _please,_ ” Hosea instructed, sounding strained. Hands started fluttering over his body, tried to shove them away and complain, but the words came out as unintelligible ramblings and he was too weak to fend them off. “He was out there for more than a few hours,” he continued with a shaky voice, “and I don’t know why he fainted like that, falling off of that horse. Warm him up, and make sure he’s doin’ alright before you allow him up again.”

“We’ll take good care of him,” Abigail promised Hosea. There were blankets suddenly being shoved onto him, and he was pressed close to Davey, the man’s fevered skin warming him. Arthur been certain that he was dead, but if he had been left to rot on that mountain, how was he suddenly in the West Grizzlies? It was strange how he still struggled to breath. “Oh, Arthur,” she sighed pityingly, combing her fingers through his hair, “you’re gonna’ work yourself to death if you keep goin’ on like this.”

Arthur figured that he couldn’t have been dead — if he was dead, then that meant Abigail was dead, and that just wasn’t possible. At least, he didn’t want to believe that she was. But there were dead folks all around him, people he knew hadn’t survived to see the end of the age of outlaws, and there couldn’t be any other explanation for that, besides—

Francis Sinclair.

“The day,” he mumbled weakly, “wha’ day is it? How long since Bla’water?”

“Jesus, Arthur,” Karen grumbled, “it was two days ago. Did you take a knock on the head or somethin’?”

_That damn Francis Sinclair._

“How hard have you been pushin’ yourself, Arthur?” Tilly asked, rubbing her hand over his collarbone. He grunted, unsure of how to answer the question being asked. “Arthur,” she repeated, shifting her hand so that she was firmly patting his cheek, “are you still with us, Arthur?”

“Ya’ ge’ shot too?” Davey slurred, shifting restlessly where he laid, and Arthur shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, “jus’ tired.”

“You can sleep now,” Abigail assured him. He could hear the smile on her face, knew she was looking down at him in fond concern. “We’re all safe,” she assured him, “and we’ll be setting up camp soon.”

At that, Arthur allowed himself to relax. Warm and comfortable, he could feel circulation returning to his fingers as he warmed up. After the rough days he’d suffered through, unable to sleep because of his coughing fits and anxious over the days ahead, the bed of blankets he laid in kept him comfortable. Davey kept breathing next to him, each breath wheezy and shallow, right up until the wagons finally stopped.

Arthur was held underneath the arms and moved from where he was laying, transported in the direction of a blurry cabin. He puked in the snow, bending over to spill what little was in his stomach into a spindly, leafless bush next to the cabin, but as they walked through the front door, he finally found his footing, starting to hobble towards the bedroom they were taking him to. It was the same one he’d had in Colter, and as he was laid down in the bed, he started to comprehend his situation.

He was back in Colter — either the gang was truly alive, or they were all trapped in some strange version of hell. Earlier, he’d fallen off his borrowed horse and passed out in the snow, and although his breathing was still labored, it was getting progressively better as warmth returned to his body and the stiffness left his limbs. Perhaps it had been one long dream, Colm O’Driscoll and Guarma and the Pinkerton Detective Agency plotting with Micah, but it felt so real that he couldn’t have simply imagined it when he fell into the snow.

“Oh, my boy,” Dutch sighed, and it made his muscles tense, jaw clenching. He’d left him there on that mountain, and he still felt anger, even if it had been just a dream. “You worked yourself too hard,” he said sorrowfully, “although perhaps that was my fault. Forget you’re mortal like us, sometimes.”

“Du’ch,” Arthur gritted out, “wha’ happened?”

“You fell off your horse,” Dutch answered simply, “fell into the snow—“

“A’ Blackwater,” Arthur interrupted quietly, and Dutch paused. He heard footsteps moving across the creaky floorboards, then felt the bed dip as Dutch sat down next to him. “Tha’ girl,” he continued, voice barely a murmur, “she wasn’t deserving of that. Ain’t the ones we’re fighting, the common folk.”

“It was our survival that was staked on that mission,” Dutch said incredulously, and Arthur could already see how far the man had drifted from the charismatic genius he once had been. His optimism had drifted into vanity, his belief in western freedom had turned into cynicism, and his compassion had turned into a selfish need for survival. He wasn’t the man who had raised Arthur. “It was in the heat of the moment, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“So ya’ _shot_ her,” Arthur spat, the words sour in his mouth.

“Son,” Dutch said patiently, tone gentle, “you’re not thinking straight. You’re tired, so you should get some sleep.”

Arthur wanted to argue with him, to make him _understand_ but he was utterly exhausted, and he knew that he shouldn’t be making so much trouble with Dutch until he knew what had happened with Francis Sinclair up on that mountaintop. Nodding, he leaned into Dutch’s hand when the man placed it on his cheek regardless of his burning anger, closing his eyes. “Things have gotten so _bad,_ Dutch,” he croaked weakly, the fight leaving him.

“They have, son,” Dutch said, “but things will get better soon.”

They didn’t get better, just increasingly worse until everyone was dead or gone, somewhere they didn’t know. Nobody got out in time, except maybe the Marston family, but he didn’t even know if John survived to meet them before escaping. Their gang was a homestead in the middle of burning to the ground, and all of them were in the sitting room, ignoring the quickly encroaching flames. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, the words spilling unbidden from between his lips as he fell back into old patterns, “I gave you everything, I promise— I tried, so _hard,_ I did, I promise, Dutch—“

“You’ve worked so hard,” Dutch said soothingly, smoothing back his hair and placing his hat on the table next to him, “and now you deserve to _rest,_ Arthur. Go ahead and sleep, and things will be better in the morning.”

Arthur grunted, and Dutch stood up, ruffling his sandy blond hair before standing up, leaving his bedroom with a wave of farewell. Fighting the heaviness in his eyelids, he looked up at the ceiling, taking deep, steady breaths until he mustered the strength to roll over in his bed. Grabbing his satchel, he pulled it up, opening the leather flap to find all the miscellaneous papers and items he remembered having.

He supposed then that it hadn’t been a strange dream.

Grabbing his journal and allowing his satchel to gently fall to the floor, he opened it up, flipping through the pages to find that everything he had written and drawn was gone — Horseshoe Overlook, Clemens Point, Guarma, and everything that had happened afterwards. Pulling out his pencil from the spine of the journal, he started drawing Francis Sinclair with that platinum pocket watch, committing the image to paper before he could forget. Next to it, he wrote about how Micah had been the rat, and the shootout with the Pinkerton Detective Agency and his final ride, almost dying alone on the mountain after Micah had left and Dutch abandoned him.

Francis Sinclair — before, he’d been just another weird stranger.

_I suppose he must’ve been a time traveler, which would explain the strange manner that he talked and dressed, along with the infant named Francis who shared his birthmark. Perhaps this time I’ll pay closer attention to the stone carvings he asked me to find for him, and maybe they’ll help me make sense of everything that has happened to me recently._

_Regardless, I am very much alive again, if worse for wear. Whatever Francis Sinclair did to me, I no longer am sick, but my exhaustion threatens to overwhelm me before I can finish writing._

_This time, things will be different._

Closing his journal, he placed it next to his hat, taking another deep breath of the crisp mountain air. The storm raged on outside of the cabin, angry and wrathful like it knew they were intruding, and he knew that it would be nearly a week before they would be able to move down south to Horseshoe Overlook, their second campsite after the massive disaster at Blackwater. He’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe without mucus and blood clogging his lungs, and even if there would be consequences for whatever Francis had done, it was almost worth it simply to have his lungs fill comfortably with every inhale.

It was worth it to see Hosea, too, his weathered face with an expression of familiar, wary concern for his wellbeing that he’d missed since the man had died. When he’d watched Lyle Morgan be hung for murder and theft, he’d felt nothing besides a sick satisfaction, but watching Hosea be shot dead had felt like his heart was being violently ripped out of his chest. The man had been the closest person to a father he’d ever had, and it had almost been like when his mother had died when he was five, holding his hand with her weak grasp as she died from whatever illness she’d been unfortunate enough to contract.

Arthur still could hardly believe it was real. He was actually in Colter again with the gang _mostly_ alive and well, even if they were miserably cold in the snowy mountains of the West Grizzlies, and the thought that it could be possible sent him reeling. When he’d helped Francis Sinclair find those stone carvings, he’d thought he was simply helping a strange man with business he couldn’t care less about, so long as he got paid in the end. The stone carvings themselves depicted massive explosions and battles and inventions the likes of which he’d never seen, and meeting the woman with the toddler at his cabin had made him aware that there was something odd about the man, but the thought hadn’t crossed his mind that Francis was a man out of time.

There was a tentative, quiet knock at his door that knocked him out of his reverie, and he realized that he’d almost fallen asleep. Jerked into sudden wakefulness, he took a shaky breath, sitting up slightly. “Come in,” he called, rubbing roughly at his eyes with the heel of his palm, and the door opened, somebody stepping inside quickly and silently before shutting the door.

It was Reverend Swanson who sat down gingerly next to him on the bed, placing a hand on his knee with a gentle smile on his worn, ragged face. “I wanted to see how you were feeling,” he explained carefully, “although I realize now that you might have been sleeping.”

Arthur almost was, but he didn’t mind being woken up. “Naw,” he drawled, “it’s alright, Reverend.” He found that had a much higher tolerance for the man, maybe because he knew that he’d eventually get sober. For some, strength is born out of adversity, and the Reverend simply needed a push to be set on a straight path again. It would happen soon enough, he figured. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he lied, “can’t with the storm outside.”

Reverend Swanson hummed, nodding slowly in agreement. “Certainly is dreadful weather,” he said, looking outside the window. Bundled up tightly, he certainly didn’t seem like he appreciated the cold. None of them did, used to warmer weather as they were. They were lucky to have warm clothes in the first place, let alone the sweaters and jackets and thick riding boots needed for the freezing mountains of Ambarino. “Are you feeling ill, or was it simply exhaustion?” The Reverend asked, wringing his hands together in his lap. Arthur could see the shake of withdrawal in his fingers, but the man was trying to not let it be obvious to him.

“The latter, I think,” Arthur said, unwilling to explain the possible time travel situation to him, because then they’d all think he was losing his mind. Micah would certainly enjoy ribbing him for saying anything similarly superstitious around him. “These last few days,” and _months,_ he added silently, “they’ve been hard on all of us, and I suppose that I ain’t an exemption to that, much as I’d like to be.”

“You work a lot harder than the rest of us,” the Reverend agreed with a breathy chuckle, shaking his head, “so it doesn’t come as a surprise to me that you ended up falling out of your saddle.”

“The others work plenty hard,” Arthur scoffed.

“Not as hard as you,” the Reverend said. There was another knock at the door, and he sent him a glance, wordlessly asking if it was alright for the person on the other side to enter. When Arthur nodded, he turned around. “Come in,” he called, “we’re just talking in here.”

It was Abigail with a bowl of soup and a tired smile on her face, smoothing down her skirts nervously. She was hardly twenty-five, and yet she seemed so much older than she was, mostly because she had both her son and her son’s father to take care of. John might’ve been around her age, but he sure acted like a child sometimes, especially in the months and years before he almost lost the boy to Angelo Bronte. “Bill and Javier have gone out to find John,” she explained, holding it out to him, “so I brought you some dinner from Pearson, and his well-wishes.”

“Thanks,” Arthur grunted, forcing himself to sit up in his bed. His limbs felt heavy, but the tiredness was starting to fade somewhat. The last time, it had been him and Javier to find John up in the mountains, so he hoped that they would get along fine without them. They probably would be safe, considering that Bill was a decent shot, even with his nasty temper. “I was getting worried about the bastard, wondered if he ran off again.”

“Oh, stop it,” Abigail scolded, lightly smacking his arm, but the words didn’t have any bite to them. He could see her lips twitching upwards, even as she fought to keep them in a scowl. “I’m worried,” she confessed, tucking hair behind her ear, “but with them out looking for him, I’m sure he’ll be found soon, even if I’d feel better with you out there searching.”

Arthur winced, shakily spooning up the soup. It had been a long time since he’d had the appetite to eat, and he felt ravenous with a hunger that he’d forgotten he could have. “Sorry for bein’ stuck here,” he apologized, taking his first mouthful of hot, _delicious_ soup. It was objectively bland, but after having barely eaten for months, it was an unexpected relief.

“Don’t be,” she said, rubbing his shoulder, “ain’t your fault. You’ve been pushed hard these past few days.”

Reverend Swanson’s eyes seem to say _see?_ , and Arthur noticed his lips twitch into the shadow of a smile. He watched as Arthur scarfed down his warm meal, leaning back on his hands. “As I was just telling Arthur,” he continued, combing his fingers through his graying orange hair, “it was no surprise to me that he fell out of his saddle, considering how much his endurance has been tested lately. I spoke with Dutch earlier, and he doesn’t want Arthur leaving camp for the next—“

“What?” Arthur interrupted, nearly inhaling the soup. Coughing raggedly into his arm, he pounded on his chest as Abigail moved to rub his shoulders soothingly, shushing him. So much had happened in those first few essential days, Ewing Basin and that Cornwall train, Kieran Duffy and Sadie Adler, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford missing any of it. “I _can’t,_ ” he wheezed, clearing his throat, “I need to be— they need—“

“What we _need,_ ” Abigail said tersely, holding his head close to her side as he blinked away the tears from almost choking, “is for you to get your strength up again before doin’ any more work. You ain’t our workhorse, Arthur, and the others can afford to pull their _own_ weights for once.”

“Yes,” Reverend Swanson said with conviction, “we all agree that your health comes before how much you can work.”

“We have another mouth to feed, though,” Abigail noted, “so it’ll be good when you can start hunting again.”

“Who?” Arthur asked, the question slipping from his mouth before he could stop it.

“A rancher’s wife named Sadie Adler.” Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, and she continued, “Micah and Dutch found her while looking for a place for us to rest for the night.” Arthur knew she had a distaste for Micah, and he could hear the disgust and pity in her voice when she said his name. He couldn’t help but share the sentiment, remembering how the rat bastard had chased her around in her own dining room while she waved a kitchen knife around and screamed for help that wouldn’t come. “Her husband was wounded by O’Driscoll’s boys, and her farm ended up burning down, so we’ve taken them in.”

“About time we started helping folks again,” Arthur grumbled. That was one issue taken care of, a person saved who Arthur was worried wouldn’t be, but there was also the question of what would happen to Kieran without him to lasso him and take him back to camp. It sunk in, then, just what she’d said, and he paused. “Her husband alive?” He asked, brow furrowing.

“Unlikely to stay that way,” Abigail confessed, “but yes.”

Arthur hummed, thinking about the photos he remembered sitting on their fireplace mantel. From what Sadie had described of him, he wouldn’t be suited for the life of an outlaw, and so he supposed that if he survived, they’d both leave to start somewhere fresh. Two less people for him to worry about saving, he supposed. “After John gets back,” he asked between mouthfuls of soup, “what happens next?”

“There’s an O’Driscoll stronghold to the southwest,” Reverend Swanson informed him, although Arthur had already known about that before, “and Dutch is planning to raid it soon. He heard tell that Colm is there.”

“More of that pointless feud,” Arthur mumbled. He scraped the last of his soup from the bottom of the bowl, licking it off his spoon before setting the dishes down on the table next to his bed. Abigail grabbed it, and he gave her a tight smile and a nod of recognition and thanks. “Nowadays,” he continued, “it seems that’s all we care about. That, and getting more money.”

“It does seem like we’ve strayed off what our original goal was,” Abigail conceded, even though she hadn’t been around when all they did was steal from the rich to give to the poor. For the first five or ten years that Arthur was with Dutch and Hosea, they’d done nothing but charity work, and swindle rich families in the swankier neighborhoods. Now, they robbed trains and stole from banks, and killed girls on ferries who had nothing to do with them. “But Dutch will see us through,” she said, “so long as we trust him.”

“Sure, Abigail,” Arthur mumbled.

“I’ll leave you to your rest, now,” she said, waving goodbye as she left, door creaking on its hinges.

“And I will also give my farewell, Mister Morgan,” the Reverend warbled, tipping his hat to him.

“Thanks, both of you,” Arthur said, and he received another tight smile from Abigail before the door was shut.

Arthur knew he could save the both of them — what he didn’t know was how many others he could spare. John wasn’t beyond saving, he’d managed it the last time, and even without him Abigail would still be capable of taking Jack someplace safe. Mary-Beth and Tilly still we’re reasonable girls, he figured. Sean, with his steadfast loyalty to Dutch, didn’t give him much hope, and Karen would burn with him if he ended up at the stake. Javier was possible — he hadn’t aimed his gun at John and him even at the end, although he’d stood with Dutch. Pearson and Uncle would be okay, but Bill was likely a lost cause. He didn’t even want to spare Micah, the rotten snake he was. Lenny was a smart boy, who Arthur hoped would leave the instant Dutch started showing his true colors, but Ms Grimshaw would stick with the man until she died.

When Micah murdered Susan and Dutch didn’t immediately kill him for it, he knew that Dutch had never cared about anyone more than himself. Hosea, maybe, but all reason had left him when Agent Milton had put a bullet through his best friend’s stomach. Maybe it had started before, but after Dutch took that head injury in the trolley, he’d started losing himself, and Hosea’s death and their stranding on Guarma had set their fate in stone.

Thinking of Hosea dying again made him nauseous — if he could only choose one person to save, it would unquestionably be him, even if the rest of them met the same grisly fates as before. They could make it, so long as they had him to steer them right, and Arthur would ensure that Hosea didn’t die during that bank robbery a second time, or in whatever aftermath would follow it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur reunites with old friends, and meets new ones.

Arthur had fallen asleep without realizing it, exhaustion overtaking him, and when he woke up, it was noticeably lighter out, although the storm continued outside of the cabin. He sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and managed to stand up, swaying on his feet. His boots had been taken off while he slept, and he put them back on, wobbling out of his bedroom and into the main living room of the cabin.

Dutch and Hosea were talking together in hushed voices, Dutch’s hand laying over Hosea’s where it rested on his bony knee, but they looked up when they heard Arthur’s footsteps on the creaky floor. “Son,” Dutch said warmly, “glad to see you’ve woken up. You slept for almost two whole days!”

That was like a blow to the face, because he hadn’t felt that bad when he’d fallen asleep, although he certainly felt better after having rested. Whatever that Sinclair fella’ had done to him, the effects had worn off almost completely with sleep and rest. “Sorry, Dutch, don’t know what came over me,” Arthur grunted, sitting on the floor next to the fire. He was still sore, joints stiff and muscles so achy it felt like he could feel it in his bones, but he felt awake and alert. “Heard from the Reverend that there’s an O’Driscoll camp nearby,” he ventured, testing the waters, and Dutch nodded, seeming to brighten up.

“Went there yesterday morning,” Dutch explained cheerfully. Arthur’s stomach dropped, and he nodded quietly, wringing his hands nervously in his lap. He’d already missed half of everything they’d done up in the mountains. “Colm wasn’t there, but we found some dynamite and plans for a train robbery, which we were planning on conducting in a couple a’ days,” he said, gesturing as he spoke, “and we captured one of his boys. We’re hoping to starve some information outta’ him, but he’s proven himself to be a nasty little fighter.”

They’d captured Kieran when he was riding out from the O’Driscoll hideout before, but he wouldn’t exactly describe him as a ‘fighter,’ let alone _nasty._ It left a bad taste in his mouth, the way that the situation felt slightly off. “And what about John?” Arthur asked, leaning back on his hands. He was confident that the man was alright, but he needed to ask to be certain of it.

“He’s alright,” Hosea answered amusedly, “if bearing a few new scars to mark that pretty face of his.” Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. The man had always prided himself on his good looks, and the scars had dealt a blow on his ego, though nothing he couldn’t recover from. “Abigail stayed with him all night regardless, and the boy’s just happy to have his pa’ back, sick as he is.”

“Maybe soon he’ll finally realize what he’s been missin’ out on,” Arthur grumbled. The steady gaze that Hosea leveled him with was sympathetic, although Dutch remained oblivious as ever. “Abigail and Jack,” he continued, looking at the fireplace, “he don’t deserve them none.”

Hosea hummed, leaning forwards to stoke the fire with a small grin. “Perhaps he’ll realize that soon,” he mused, “or maybe he’ll never come to that conclusion. Who am I to say with him?”

“Arthur, my boy, I’m sure you have already been told that you aren’t to leave camp quite yet, doctor’s orders,” Dutch said, standing up from his old wooden chair and stretching out his arms, “but I was thinking that you could go check on our prisoner for us.” Hosea rolled his eyes, but Dutch just walked over to where his satchel was resting on the ground, scratching the back of his neck as he rummaged through the bag. Pulling out a cigar, he started heading towards the exit. “I’ll come with you to smoke this,” he said, waving the small, brown stick, “so as not to upset Hosea’s unfortunate lungs.”

“Alright, I’m coming,” Arthur muttered as he clambered to his feet.

Hosea clasped his shoulder as he moved to leave, stopping him, and Arthur leaned in to listen to whatever he had to say. After he died, he wouldn’t waste another moment with him, even if Dutch was standing impatiently outside. “Just remember, kid,” Hosea said patiently, tapping his wrinkled forehead lightly with his index finger, “keep your head, and don’t go too hard on our new friend. He’ll try’n provoke you, so you just have to stay calm, and don’t do anything rash.”

It was a bad sign that Hosea had to tell him that, because Kieran had done nothing but beg for mercy from them, even when he was almost castrated by a disturbingly enthusiastic Bill back at Horseshoe Overlook. Not a bad word had come out of that boy’s mouth, and he had the creeping suspicion that their newest captive wasn’t Kieran Duffy.

Dutch guided him towards the barn, and he didn’t mention that he didn’t need directions there. Smoking his cigar, shivering in the cold even whilst bundled up tightly in his jacket and layers of clothing, he nodded towards the entrance, a smirk on his lips. “I was just gonna’ starve him,” Dutch said distantly, “but do whatever you need to get information outta’ him. We need to start planning our next move for when we get out of these godforsaken mountains.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur said, but while he used to have no qualms with beating an O’Driscoll until their face was unrecognizable as human, he no longer found the idea appealing — in his last few weeks, he’d discovered a softness and sentimentality to himself that he hadn’t believed was possible for someone like him. Saving folks that needed saving, helping folks that needed helping, absolving debts and giving away money freely rather than hoarding it for himself. In the face of death, he had been forced to re-examine himself, and he’d found that he liked being kind much more than being cruel.

His suspicion that it wasn’t Kieran in the barn was proven correct the instant he opened the doors, stepping inside the shelter and out of the biting wind that nipped at his face. The man he found tied to the pole instead was slimier, somehow, with sickly pale skin that was covered in a visible layer of grime and sweat. He didn’t know who captured their unfortunate new captive, but he had a wound on his thigh that clearly hadn’t been cared for correctly, and in the disgusting barn Arthur was certain it would get infected, if it wasn’t already. His blonde hair was tangled, matted with blood from a large gash on his forehead, and Arthur could hear his wheezy breathing from several yards away.

Charles saluted him from a chair in the corner of the barn where he kept his silent watch over their prisoner, expression grim, and Arthur knew he liked the situation about as much as he did.

Meaning, not at all.

Their captive had been squatted on the ground, knees pulled up to his chest and face bent down, but when he heard Arthur approaching him, he was quick to launch to his feet, knee giving out underneath him. He was left in an awkward kneel, the rope keeping him from falling completely but also restricting his movements enough to stop him from trying to stand up again, and he sneered at Arthur, baring his teeth at him. “I ain’t talkin’,” he spat viciously, eyes wild like a caged animal, or that cougar, painted like a tiger.

 _‘Nasty fighter’_ may have been an apt description.

So Arthur beckoned Charles to come over to him, and although the man frowned skeptically, he didn’t question what he needed him for. “I’m gonna’ move his bindings so that he can comfortably sit down,” he told Charles, moving to sit down next to their captive, “so if you could hold him down so he don’t try’n kill me, that’d be great.”

“Sure, Arthur,” Charles said, because he’d never say no to doing something kind. It was something that Arthur had envied, at first, the capability to do good without thinking over it first, but then the envy had shifted to respect and admiration, and eventually he managed to be capable of it himself. He hoped that in that other life, Charles managed to get away safely, because if anyone deserved it, it was him.

“Bastards, the both of ya’,” the O’Driscoll hissed, kicking and fighting even as they tried doing something nice for him, and Arthur was almost tempted to let it go, but he wanted to treat that wound on his leg and being forced to put pressure on it wouldn’t help him. He squirmed in Charles’ unyielding hold, and Arthur adjusted his bindings, putting them lower on the fence. “When I get out,” he said harshly, accent thick and decidedly Irish, “I’ll kill you all, but not before cuttin’ your ears off, and then we’ll see who’s laughing over whose corpses.”

“Listen,” Arthur said tiredly, electing to ignore the gruesome image the man painted, “your situation only as difficult as you make it. The minute you tell us where Colm is at, this’ll be over.” Opening his satchel, he found a bottle of gin and the needle and thread he’d used for many hastily done stitches, and he supposed it would have to do, setting his supplies down on a clean handkerchief. He moved to pull the O’Driscoll’s pants off, and the man nearly kneed him in the jaw — would’ve, if his reflexes weren’t quite as fast. “I’m tryin’ to help,” he gritted out, forcing his leg down as he ripped his pants off, “so it’s either this, or I cut right through those work trousers, and you’re left naked from the waist down.”

“I’m usually despise violence for the sake of it,” Charles mused as Arthur sat on their captive’s legs to pin him down, lucky that the man’s hands were already bound behind him, “but Arthur, I have been with him for two days, and nothing and nobody has ever tried my patience more than the man underneath you.”

“Just fucking _kill_ me already, you fucker,” the man gritted out, squirming. Despite that wound of his obviously weakening him, likely having already gone septic considering his flushed, sweaty face and feverishly warm skin, he fought back like an angry bull, trying to buck them off him. “Ugly sonuva bitch,” he spat viciously at him, “ain’t ya? Bet the only things willin’ to sleep with ya’ anywhere are the _horses_ in the stables!”

“I’m feeling _similarly_ violent urges,” Arthur agreed as he doused a rag in alcohol and started cleaning out the ugly bullet wound. It was clearly infected, but his flesh and muscle had already almost spat the bullet out, so he didn’t need anything except his fingers to pull it free. Besides the sound of grinding teeth, the O’Driscoll didn’t make a noise, and Arthur could almost respect his grit. “I might be wrong,” he mused, cleaning the wound with alcohol, “but this seems like a bad idea, keeping him alive.”

“ _Horse fucker,_ ” their prisoner spat again, trying to buck him off like a wild horse.

“Dutch seems to think we can get information out of him,” Charles said neutrally.

Arthur started cleaning out the dead, infected tissue, and although it made fresh blood leak from the injury, he didn’t stop until only healthy skin and tissue remained. Even though the man was shifting, trying to break free of his grasp, he managed to sew the injury closed without poking him too many times, although he pricked the man’s thigh on several occasions. Their prisoner didn’t even scream, although he was suspiciously quiet as he bit down on his cheek and burned a hole in the barn wall with his gaze. Without fanfare, Arthur wiped the blood away, then bandaged the wound, pulling his pants back up his legs and stepping away from him. He would try cleaning the blood under his nose, but he was certain the kid would try biting him if he got his hand anywhere near his mouth.

The man spat bloody phlegm on his boot, the fires of hatred burning in his dark eyes, and Arthur slapped him harshly with an open palm across the face. “You _listen_ to me,” Arthur said darkly, leaning down and grabbing his jaw. While the light still burned in his gaze, there was the flicker of fear in his eyes, sudden and panicked, and Arthur figured it was because he hadn’t expected Arthur to fight back when he’d been doing nothing but fighting against him. “Dutch tried doin’ this cleanly,” he murmured to him, twisting his face, “tried _starving_ you for information, but you’ve been here for hardly a day and he’s already told me to rough you up.”

“I can take a beating,” he gritted out, voice muffled by the fingers pinching his mouth. Arthur chuckled, shaking his head, because the boy couldn’t have been older than twenty. “You’re just a _ghost,_ ” he spat as Arthur released his face, standing up, “pretending to be something big and tough.”

_“You and I,” Arthur had said in another life, “we’re more ghosts than people.”_

“Don’t bite the hand that‘ll be feeding you, kid,” Arthur said, starting to walk out the barn with a wave of farewell towards Charles, “because Charles and I, we’re a lot nicer than some of the folks in this camp. And I ain’t even nice.”

With the door shut behind Arthur, his shoulders slumped, and he rubbed roughly at his eyebrows, already exhausted and he’d just woken up. He supposed that the side effects of traveling back through time wouldn’t fade quickly, although he’d hoped that he had fully recovered from it. The ordeal of tending to their prisoner’s wounds and dealing with his hissy personality had tired him out faster than he thought it would.

Dutch sent him a skeptical glance, raising his eyebrow. His cigar had been smoked down to almost a nub. “I didn’t hear much in the way of screaming,” he said humorously, clearly unbothered by the lack of torture, and Arthur shrugged. Sighing, Dutch clapped him on the back. “I think he’s one of Colm’s bastards,” Dutch said, steering him back towards the house, “but I ain’t sure, just can see a resemblance. A man he was with called him Liam, although we haven’t been able to get anything else outta’ him.”

Arthur’s stomach turned. “What happened to the other one?”

Dutch chuckled, shaking his head. “Micah put a bullet through his head,” he explained, “and put a bullet in our special guest’s thigh. Was about to kill him, before Javier suggested we take him prisoner instead.”

“You think he’s important?” Arthur asked, looking back towards the barn.

“I doubt it,” Dutch said, shaking his head. A wry smile twisted his lips as he put out his cigar, tossing its remains far into the snow outside of camp. “Colm only cared about me killing his brother because he took it as a slight,” he said harshly, “so I doubt he’d care much about one of his multitude of bastards going missing. He‘ll probably figure that he was shot and killed at Ewing Basin with the rest of ‘em.”

Arthur simply hummed, because with their luck Colm would take it as another slight and come to kill them all painfully himself. “Where’s John?” Arthur asked, looking around the rows of ramshackle buildings. He figured he’d be in the same structure, but he figured he might as well ask the question. “I should probably go see him.”

“He’s in that long building,” Dutch said, pointing towards the place John had been previously, “along with Davey, and the man we found at the farmhouse, that _Mister Adler._ ”

That made Arthur pause, because he hadn’t thought that Davey would live regardless. “Wait, Davey,” he said, stopping in the snow, “he ain’t dead yet?”

“That’s what I asked, too!” Dutch crowed. “But no, by some goddamn _miracle,_ he isn’t dead.”

Arthur grunted, shaking his head in disbelief, and lifted his hand. “I’ll go check on them,” Arthur said, heading towards the house, and Dutch nodded, parting ways with him to rejoin Hosea by the fire.

When he walked into the cabin, he found John sitting up slightly in bed, the girls crowded around him as Davey talked animatedly about something or other. As vicious of brutes as the brothers could be, Davey at least had a sense of humor, and was decidedly better-liked. Whatever had happened, he was somehow alive and well.

“And so I managed to lift the pig,” Davey said, gesturing like he was raising something, “because of course I did, but then the farmer decided that I had tricked him into thinking I was a cripple, which I admittedly also did, and he decided he’d try gutting me with a shovel!” The crowd around him chuckled, although they’d all heard the story before around the fire, both when it happened and afterwards. “So I tossed the pig at him, knocked him flat on his ass in the mud, and ran faster than I’ve ever run.”

John’s gaze landed on Arthur, and he raised his hand in greeting, smiling tightly as best he could with the stitches and bandages on his face. “Arthur,” he croaked with that raspy voice of his, and heads turned, people’s face lighting up as he distracted them from the story of Davey’s misadventure.

“You’re up,” Tilly said, standing up to push him towards a chair — she sounded happily surprised to see him awake and alive. He took it gratefully, and she sat down next to him.

Davey clasped his shoulder with a firm grip, and Arthur never thought that he’d see the man again, let alone alive. He could remember his grave, a pile of smooth stones with a tall headstone, and the dissonance between that and the grinning man in front of him was jarring. “Stole my thunder, Morgan,” he teased with a playful wink, “although I’m glad to see you up and awake!”

By all means, Arthur should’ve been dead, but he wasn’t, not as a fluke of some higher power, but from the intervention of one Francis Sinclair. “It’s been a rough couple a’ days,” Arthur admitted reluctantly, rubbing the back of his neck and wetting his lips, “and I guess the cold and the running just got to me.”

“Regardless,” Davey said, “the three of us,” he leaned forwards to pat John’s shoulder, “somehow survived!”

“Jenny is dead,” Arthur said, “and Sean was captured. Mac is still missing, too.”

Davey shook his head, still smiling. “Last time I saw him in Blackwater, he was fine,” he assured him cheerfully, “so I’m sure he’s laying low somewhere, waiting for us to poke our heads up. Mac is more of a stubborn prick than you are, and that’s saying something!”

Mac was likely dead already — Arthur didn’t voice it, but the thought made him frown.

“It’s a pity about Jenny though,” Davey said, demeanor sobering.

“I know that Lenny was sweet on her,” Mary-Beth added, looking down at her hands that were folded in her lap. Gloved fingers curled in the fabric of her dress, she fidgeted absentmindedly, expression mournful. “These past few days,” she continued, “they’ve been hard on all of us.”

Arthur saw movement in the corner of his vision, and he turned to find Sadie, hunched over and sitting on the edge of another bed. A man was laying in it, bloodstained bandages wrapped tightly around his head and throat, and from the one picture he’d seen of him, Arthur immediately recognized the man as none other than Jake Adler. It seemed already that things were going his way, although the man looked worse for wear. “And who might you be?” Arthur asked, already knowing the answer.

“Adler,” she croaked, “Sadie Adler. Missus’.” She didn’t look up at him, continuing to stroke her husband’s forehead with a tenderness he’d never gotten to see in her. From the moment they’d met, she’d already been broken, full of sharp edges and frustration, but that version of her had been recently widowed, struggling to cope with the lifestyle of a group of nomadic outlaws. It took time for her to find herself, but when she did, she burned brighter than the rest of them. “This is my husband—“

“Jake,” Arthur finished for her. A smile twitched onto her lips for the briefest moment, before it disappeared back under her exhaustion and misery. He wasn’t sure how Jake was alive, how history could’ve possibly have been changed before he even arrived, but he wasn’t going to question it. “Glad the two of you are safe,” he said gruffly, leaning forwards and extending a hand towards her, “if not exactly healthy and hale. Name’s Arthur.”

Sadie shook his hand, although her expression was one of confusion. She squinted at him, and Arthur could almost imagine she was seeing straight through him to the secret he was carrying close to his chest. But as quickly as the puzzled expression appeared, it was gone. “I heard you were ill,” Sadie said, the question phrased like a sentence.

“We’ve had a rough week,” Arthur said dismissively.

Sadie nodded, looking back towards her husband. “I understand.”

Arthur’s curiosity was urging him to ask how they both made it out alive, but he knew that those questions would be better saved for if and when Jake Adler woke up. It felt like Arthur would jinx it if he asked while the man was still just barely clinging to life — he wasn’t going to be looking gift horses in the mouth anytime soon. Arthur still wasn’t completely certain that everything wasn’t just the fevered dreams of a dying man.

“How’s John gettin’ along?” Arthur asked instead, turning towards the man laid up in his cot. Last time, it’d been him and Javier who pulled him off that mountain, but now it was Bill and Javier who’d gone off to find him. It made him feel a little bad that it’s been left up to them while he was sleeping, or all things, but they’d brought him home alive, and that was all that mattered. “Something’s different about his face. Looks like he got gnawed on by dogs.”

“Attacked by wolves,” John grumbled, looking away sheepishly.

“Knowing you, they’ll heal fine,” Arthur joked. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, John frowned at him, and Arthur bristled at the expression. “Why’re you staring at me like that?”

John scoffed, brows pinching. “Why’re you talking to me _normal_ all of a’ sudden?”

In the four years since he’d left and come back, Arthur hadn’t spoken much to John unless it was necessary. He’d been too angry at the prodigal son to talk to him, even if Dutch and the others begged and pleaded with him to forgive and forget like the rest of them had — John had everything Arthur had lost, and yet he still threw it all away, and Arthur had been left to pick up the broken pieces left behind him. John never had to suffer through Jack crying through the night, never had to wake up to change him or help Abigail get him back to sleep, and he never had to listen to Abigail crying over him, and yet he was welcomed back with open arms.

Between Blackwater and Butcher’s Hollow, Arthur had watched John mature more than he had in twenty whole years of his life. He’d finally started talking to him, although when he forgave him and started treating him like a brother again, he wasn’t sure. It was probably when they got Jack back from Angelo Bronte that he’d seen the most change, when John had bent down and allowed Jack to run into his arms when he’d hardly even looked at the kid before.

From John’s perspective, he’d suddenly started joking with him and talking with him like normal again, like nothing had ever happened with Abigail or Jack, and they’d never fought. He was looking at Arthur like he’d grown a third arm, and Arthur blanched, realizing how strange it must’ve seemed to him. “Now‘s the worst time to hold onto old grudges,” Arthur said, knowing that it was a weak excuse, “and anyways, you almost died. Figure I should at least be polite.”

“You’ve been a whole lot nicer recently,” Tilly observed, looking at him skeptically. Her tone was teasing, but the look in her eyes was asking for an answer. “You sure you’re feeling okay now, Arthur?”

“Just have a new appreciation for the folks in my life, that’s all.” It was the honest truth — after everything he’d done, after everything they’d gone through and all the people that died, Arthur recognized what he’d taken for granted before. The camp, his family — it was all worth more than the money they’d struggled to get. “Had some... strange dreams.”

“Good for you, Arthur,” Mary-Beth said, smiling at him. There was something like pride in her eyes, and he looked away from her, blushing. They’d talked a lot about his killing before, him spilling his guts to her whenever he recognized that he was going too far, and he knew she saw the best in him and forgave the worst. “You’ve always been a good man,” she continued, “and I’m glad to hear you aren’t taking life for granted.

“Wouldn’t go that far, Miss Gaskill,” Arthur joked, rubbing the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent some time messing around in Colter, and lemme just say that if you stick around for long enough in that room with John and Sadie and folks, they start getting really angry? Just something I noticed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cooped up in camp, Arthur tries to make headway in his new reality.

_Jake Adler and Davey are both alive when they shouldn’t be, which makes a good start to my mission, although I haven’t done much of anything yet. In this new present of mine, I am determined to ensure the folks who deserve to make it out do, and I am insofar pleased with the results._

_We’re still camped out in Colter, and the others are fixing to rob that Cornwall train. Doubt it’s a good idea, but I won’t question it, seeing as we need the money pretty desperately and it didn’t go too horribly the last time. Even without me, it shouldn’t go bad like the ferry job. I have no doubt that I’ll see the folks that leave on it safe and sound when they get back, although if Micah is shot and killed, I will be awfully pleased._

_The next step is figuring what the hell happens next._

The last time Arthur had been captive at camp, it’d been after being tortured by Colm O’Driscoll. Laid up in bed for the first week, slipping in and out of a feverish sleep, he’d been too sick from infection to get bored with staying in camp, but the next two weeks had been awful. He’d quickly grown restless, and as they’d forced him to stay in bed for awhile afterwards, he was forced to entertain himself. They insisted that his only job was to recover, but he couldn’t help but feel useless, trapped in bed while the others worked.

Even Uncle pitched in — that probably hurt his pride the most.

Charles went hunting for deer without him, his hand having recovered enough for him to use a bow and arrows, and Javier went down to the lake to fish, coming back with a bag full of salmon that kept the thirty of them well fed. Dutch planned the train robbery, and although he was allowed to consult with him on it, he knew it was only to make him feel useful — he wouldn’t be allowed on the job with them, considering they didn’t want him ‘working himself to death.’ It’d never concerned them before, but it seemed falling off his horse unprompted was enough to make them worry.

Over the several days when he was laid up, he only grew more certain that Francis Sinclair had somehow sent him back in time. It was likely that pocket watch of his, a bit on the nose for a time machine, but it being cliché didn’t make it any less incredible. He’d try being rational about it, but it always circled back around to there being no other explanation for everything turning out exactly how it had the first time, albeit without his involvement.

No, the only explanation was that he’d been sent back to the beginning.

It would’ve been better if he’d been sent back to before Blackwater, seeing as he could’ve come up with some way to dispose of Micah early before everything went to hell, but he was lucky to have been sent back at all. A second chance to fix everything, save the folks who needed saving, and maybe even keep them together as a family had been handed to him, and he wasn’t about to be ungrateful.

“Arthur,” someone called, and he was knocked out of his reverie.

Turning around at the campfire he sat at, he found Dutch approaching, arms wrapped tightly around himself with his scarf wound around his face. He was smiling broadly even with snow catching in his mustache and gathering on his hat, and Arthur knew something good had happened. “What’s the matter?” He asked, rubbing his hands together.

“That Adler fella’ woke up,” Dutch said happily, “and Swanson says he’s gonna’ make it.”

Whatever made Jake Adler survive, Arthur was grateful for it. Sadie grew strong after she lost her home and her husband, but she was doomed to the same fate as the rest of them — living violently, dying young. He was certain she’d grow just as strong the second time around, but maybe her husband would keep her from that manic rage he’d seen in her. “That’s good,” Arthur said, a smile twisting his own lips.

“Yeah,” Dutch agreed. Sitting down next to him at the fire, he extended his hands so that his palms were exposed to the flames, warming them. “We’ll see if they have anywhere we can leave them when he’s recovered,” he continued, rubbing his reddened nose, “and if they don’t, we’ll see what use they can be around camp.”

“That Adler woman,” Arthur mused, “reckon she’s a strong one.”

Dutch squinted at him, then barked out a laugh, loud and boisterous. “Don’ quite see it the way that you do,” Dutch said jokingly, nudging him with his elbow, “seeing that she’s spent most of her time either crying or fussing over her wounded husband, but you’re a good judge of folks’ character.”

“Just have a good feeling about her,” Arthur said — it was the truth, but not the whole truth.

The whole truth included her butchering swarms of O’Driscoll boys, of Sadie Adler avenging her husband and realizing that she’d become nothing more than a murderer. It was her realizing that she didn’t need anyone else, but that sometimes it was nice to have somebody watching your back, and that somebody wanting to watch over her just meant that they cared, not that they thought her incompetent. Arthur watched her fall apart, then stitch herself back together again, and he knew it was just who she was.

“We’ll see,” Dutch said, doubtful. Releasing a shaky sigh, he shivered, pulling in his hands to rub his upper arms. They’d be out of the snow soon, Arthur knew, but first they had a train to rob in the late morning. “We were about to leave for our little robbery, and I wanted to assure you that you’ll be missed.”

“I’m feelin’ fine, now,” Arthur assured him. The exhaustion that had overtaken him after Francis Sinclair sent him back had faded, replaced with a restless need to do something that wasn’t working with Pearson in the kitchens, or listening to the Reverend’s sermons. They wouldn’t even let him chop firewood by himself. “Why’re you insisting that I remain at camp, anyway? I’ve done harder things than train robberies with bullets still inside of me.”

Dutch sighed again, reaching over to clasp his shoulder. “Because, son,” Dutch said, and Arthur hated the amusement in his voice at his predicament, “it’s easy to forget that you’re human like the rest of us. Seeing you collapse like that, it made us remember that even you need some time to recover that great strength of yours.”

“So when can I get back to work, then?” Arthur groused.

Dutch laughed, slapping his knee. “That a’ boy!” He exclaimed joyously. Even Arthur managed to chuckle tiredly. “I assure you that when we get to our next camp, you will be free to do as you please.”

“Good,” Arthur grunted.

“And hey,” Dutch continued, “while we’re gone, you can continue trying to wrangle some information out of our honored guest!” Arthur didn’t like being reminded of the prisoner who seemed to have replaced Kieran’s role in camp, both because he didn’t know where Kieran was, and because the boy was a real piece of work. “Bill gave him a thrashing yesterday, and almost got his fingers bitten off for the trouble. Just about killed the poor bastard for it.”

Arthur remembered the fuss Bill had kicked up afterwards, his face reddened with fury as Swanson worked to bandage his wounded hand. He’d wanted to say he deserved it, but he kept his mouth shut. “I doubt the boy’s much older than twenty,” Arthur said, fishing a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and offering one to Dutch, who accepted rather quickly. They lit them in the flames, and Arthur took a drag, finally able to smoke without coughing. “I don’t think he’ll be breaking anytime soon.”

“It’s either that, or we put him down,” Dutch said, cigarette smoke spilling from his lips as he talked. He turned to look at the barn, where men were heading inside to grab their horses, and Arthur knew his time was running out. “It’s his choice whether or not he meets his end at the end of Mrs Grimshaw’s shotgun.

Molly had met her end at the end at it — Micah might’ve, if he hadn’t shot her first.

“Dutch, if I could make a... suggestion,” Arthur said, leaning forwards to lean on his elbow, “when you rob the train, you should tell them you’re the O’Driscoll boys who’d originally been fixin’ to rob them.”

Dutch rubbed at his mustache, considering. “No fame or honor in pretending to be another gang,” he mused, looking back towards the others, “but I suppose that we are lying low, and there’ll be time enough for more train heists. Sure, I’ll play the part of Colm O’Driscoll.”

Something unknotted in Arthur’s stomach, because if they could manage to keep Leviticus Cornwall’s sights on Colm O’Driscoll, maybe they’d be able to avoid the repercussions of his wrath. They’d at least have one less thing to worry about. “Keep our heads low for awhile, and soon enough,” Arthur said, watching Dutch rise to his feet, “we’ll be farmers out west. Free, with no lawmen right on our heels.”

“So long as we have faith,” Dutch agreed, walking towards where Hosea was leading his horse out of the barn. He greeted his old friend with an embrace, then patted his shoulder before mounting the Count. With a shout of let’s ride, the gang rode off south to rob a Cornwall train.

His words left a bad taste lingering in Arthur’s mouth — that Faith was what got them all killed.

Standing up from his spot by the campfire, he started towards the barn himself, trying to ignore the urge to hop onto the mahogany bay walker hitched by their cabin that Hosea had told him was a substitute for Boadicea, not a replacement for her, and join them. He’d sold the stallion soon after they’d arrived in Horseshoe Overlook, but he figured that maybe he’d keep him for awhile. It wouldn’t hurt, that was for sure. The only thing that kept him from following them to the railway was that Hosea was watching him, and he knew the man would follow after him if he left.

Pearson was curing meat, and as much as he respected the cook, he knew that if he saw him, he’d rope him into helping prepare the afternoon lunch, as meager as it would be with venison, deer, and the few cans of vegetables that they were rationing. He walked through a gap in the fence across from it instead, feeling almost like a coward as he hid behind the trees to avoid being seen by him, and pushed open the barn doors quietly, closing them behind him.

Their new captive was still tied to his post, and although his arms were kept pinned behind his back, he must’ve been more comfortable sitting down. His head snapped up from his chest when he heard Arthur enter, and his lips twisted into a snarl as he shrunk away from him. He hadn’t seen him since he cleaned his wounds, and then, he’d dug a bullet out of his thigh before slapping him across the face — not exactly the best introduction.

“Horse fucker,” the boy gritted out in greeting.

Arthur snorted, settling down on a stool across from him. “You look worse for wear,” he observed aloud, raising an eyebrow at him. Bill had given him quite the beating, despite his injury — his lip was split, his face was bruised, and bright red blood from his nose had trickled down to seep into the white fabric of his shirt. “How old are ya’, kid?”

The boy stayed quiet, head lulling back. His hair was plastered to his forehead and blood from the same cut across his temple, and it was obvious that nobody had come to clean it. He was lucky it hadn’t become infected like his leg, and that the bandages wrapped around the bullet wound weren’t stained with gangrene or pus. There was dirt staining the white fabric, and he knew that Bill or whoever else interrogated him had been kicking the wound.

Sighing, Arthur took out his knife. The kid’s gaze flickered towards it, but he just pulled an apple out of his pocket, starting to slice through it as he cupped it tightly in his palm. They’d been starving him for four days already, and it was natural that the boy’s attentions turned towards the fruit. The juice leaked onto his glove, but he’d just wash the stickiness from the leather later.

“Liam, wasn’t it?” Arthur asked, the knife sliding through the fruit with a satisfying crunch. The boy curled into himself a little bit more, and Arthur wondered again just how old he was. Couldn’t have been older than twenty, about Lenny or Sean’s age, but he could’ve been a lot younger than that. He almost reminded him of Sean with those bounty hunters. “You’re awfully young to be running with Colm O’Driscoll and his men.”

“I’m seventeen,” the boy spat, and Jesus fucking Christ that was young. They were torturing and starving someone who was practically a child, even if he was probably about the same height as Hosea. Arthur’s gaze flickered down to the bullet wound, and knew he wasn’t leaving without changing those bandages. “You’re just a feckin’ useless old horse fucker—“

“Woah, woah,” Arthur said, holding his hands up, “no need for insults here.”

Rising to his feet and sheathing his knife, Arthur walked over to the boy, crouching down next to him on the muddy floor of the barn. The kid tried getting his legs out from under himself to kick at him, but he was weak from hunger and the position was awkward, so Arthur easily just pinned his legs, even with a cut apple in his hands. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” the boy growled, shrinking away from him.

“I’m feeding you, kid,” Arthur sighed heavily, sitting on his legs and taking a slice of apple, “and like I said before, please don’t bite the hand that feeds you. I saw what you did to Bill with those teeth a’ yours, and I sincerely do not want a repeat performance.”

Arthur held it out to the boy, and he went crosseyed trying to look at it, brow furrowing in confusion rather than anger. He glanced between the apple and him, shifting nervously underneath him like a spooked horse. “Is that,” he started nervously, the aggression suddenly having disappeared and been replaced with a skittish sort of curiosity, “um—“

“Just eat it, boy,” Arthur ordered, exasperated.

The O’Driscoll kid didn’t have to be told twice.

He ate hurriedly, like suddenly Arthur was gonna’ decide to take it away, but Arthur fed him patiently, taking a slice at a time and trusting the boy to eat from his hands without biting. Arthur wasn’t about to untie him, but the boy had stopped trying to fight him altogether, eating with a desperation that Arthur was intimately familiar with.

When he was finished, Arthur tossed the core away, then took out his water flask, uncapping the bottle. He held it up for the boy to drink, his throat bobbing as Arthur helped pace him so he wouldn’t choke, then replaced the flask on his belt. The boy panted raggedly, face flushed with what might’ve been embarrassment or relief, and when Arthur clambered out of his lap, he didn’t try kicking at him again.

“Now, boy,” Arthur said calmly, starting to get his limited medical supplies out of his satchel and knowing that he’d need to wash and reuse the dirty bandages around the boy’s leg, “I’m gonna’ change those soiled bandages of yours. Are we doin’ this the easy way, or the hard way?”

The kid didn’t answer, but from the way that he stubbornly looked away from Arthur and sat still against his post, he knew that he wasn’t about to put up the same fuss as the last time. He allowed Arthur to unwrap the bandages around his leg and clean out the wound again, even if he bit down on his cheek from the stinging of the alcohol he rubbed into it, and when he wrapped him up again, he continued sitting still. Arthur considered it progress.

“Why’re ya’ doing this?” The boy muttered quietly, gaze flickering between Arthur and the floor. All that fire and bravado was gone, and what was left was a scared teenager, held captive by a group of men who’d slaughtered the only people he knew. “Bein’ so nice ta’ me.”

“I don’t torture children,” Arthur answered brusquely. The boy frowned at being called a child, but he didn’t voice any of his protestations. There was still apple juice on his chin, and Arthur reached forwards to swipe it with his thumb — the kid didn’t try sinking his teeth in, despite the opportunity. “So long as I have a say in it, you’ll be safe from here on out,” Arthur promised him, “and if you tell me what you know about Colm’s plans or hideouts, we can cut you loose.”

The boy fidgeted, his fingers curling to rub against his palms, and he stubbornly stared down at his feet, lips pursing together. Without the cursing and hollering, he finally looked his age. “There’s a couple a’ places,” he started warily, still not looking at Arthur, “one down south called Hanging Dog Ranch, and another in the Cumberland Forest...”

The kid was obviously trusted with more information than Kieran had been, which made Arthur wonder if the kid was actually Colm’s bastard son or not. He had doubted the theory when Dutch first suggested it, but he’d seen Colm up close before, and the kid shared his nose and his brow, although his features were softer and more youthful. He had the same lanky build, too, his frame tall and skinny, and Arthur doubted he’d ever had much to eat.

Patiently listening, Arthur jotted down in his journal what the boy told him on a page titled in bold, ‘O’DRISCOLL INTERROGATION’. He didn’t interrupt, just listened, and by the time that the kid declared that he’d said all he knew, he’d filled up the entire page with his elegant cursive. It was much more than they’d ever gotten before, and he closed the journal being satisfied with the results.

Taking out his knife again, he cut the boy‘s rope bindings, watching him cradle his hands close to his chest and rub his reddened wrists. Slipping an arm underneath his, he helped him rise to his feet, the boy limping on his wounded leg, and Arthur hoped that his stitches wouldn’t tear.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Arthur asked jokingly, and the kid shook his head, even with the grumpy pout on his face. He could already tell that the kid just had a belligerent personality in general, and that his fiery temper was a result of that. “I’ll get you comfortable, now, and when the others come back, I’ll explain it to them.”

“I’m sorry for calling you horse fucker,” the boy muttered sheepishly.

That drew a laugh out of him. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said, supporting most of his weight as they limped out of the barn and towards the house he was sharing with Dutch, Hosea, and Molly, “I said a lot meaner when Dutch and Hosea first found me. Tried robbing them, worked out well until it didn’t.”

Liam sent him a confused glance, but didn’t ask another question. If he had, Arthur probably would’ve told him the full story. As it was, they stumbled through the doorway, and Arthur sat him down by the fireplace in one of the wooden chairs.

There was a fire burning for Molly and him while the others were away, and the woman looked at them strangely, a question clearly written on her face. Arthur could remember blood spreading across her waist the same color as her hair, and he blinked to try getting that image out from where it was burned into his eyelids, to no avail. “Who’ve ya’ got there, Arthur?” Molly asked warily, coming from where she was adjusting her makeup to watch them cautiously.

“That O’Driscoll boy,” Arthur answered plainly. Her eyes widened, and he hurried to clarify the situation. “The kid told me everything he claims to know, and he isn’t about to fight more.”

“If you’re sure,” Molly said, heading back into her bedroom.

Arthur sighed in exhaustion, rubbing his face.

There was a can of sweetcorn in Arthur’s bag, and he opened it, handing the can to the boy with a spoon. The kid ate too quickly, and Arthur was forced to grab his wrist to get him to stop. “You’re gonna’ make yourself sick eating that fast,” Arthur explained in response to the angry, confused glare the boy sent him, and the kid reluctantly slowed himself, scooping the corn into his mouth with the spoon at an easier pace.

When he finished, Arthur took it and set it down on a rickety table. The boy pulled his jacket tighter around himself, staring into the fireplace, and Arthur took his own scarf, wrapping it around the kid’s neck. “Thank you,” the boy murmured, the words so quiet they were almost inaudible, “for everything, sir.”

“As I told you,” Arthur said, clasping his shoulder, “we don’t hurt children, here.”

“That fat fella’ did,” Liam grumbled.

“Bill’s the exception, not the rule,” Arthur assured him, “although you’d do well to stay away from Micah, too.

Liam frowned. “Who?”

“He’s the man that shot you,” Arthur explained.

Humming, the boy nodded.

“Now, I need to go check on the women and wounded,” Arthur said, patting him gently on the shoulder, “so you be good by the fire, kid. Don’t try walking anywhere with that leg a’ yours.”

The boy grunted, and he took it as affirmation.

Leaving the house, Arthur sighed, pinching his brow and leaning against the side of the building. Everything was already so different from how it had been, and he hadn’t made it past the first week. He was relying on everything being about the same, on interrupting events whenever they made big mistakes or when someone was about to die, but when they had three more people that could come on jobs and they might not even need to leave Horseshoe Overlook because of Leviticus Cornwall, there wouldn’t be anything he’s able to predict.

His ace card was that he knew Micah was the rat — he would let Dutch know early, come up with some lie or fib on how he figured it out, or follow him and see if he could come across his meetings with the Pinkertons. Arthur had a camera of his own, and pictures evidence would be undeniable.

Standing up straighter and pushing off from the wall, Arthur headed towards the long house that the others were staying in, pulling his collar up around his face to make up for the lack of a scarf. Opening the door to the house, he wasn’t prepared for the first thing he saw being the man who last he’d seen him had been a corpse on a wagon that Javier had gone to bury.

Jake Adler’s head and throat were still wrapped, pink staining the bandages, but he was sitting up, a tin cup full of steaming coffee sitting in his lap. Sadie leaned against his shoulder, a hand resting on his knee, and he had his head on her shoulder, eyes closed. Arthur would’ve thought he was sleeping, if not for his grip on the cup. When he entered the room, heads turned towards him, and the man opened his dark eyes, looking up at him.

“Hey, folks,” Arthur mumbled nervously. The last time, Arthur had been unwelcome in the cabin, expected to contribute and unable to enter without throwing some antagonistic comment at John.

This time, they smiled at him, and Tilly came to rest a hand on his elbow. “How’re you feeling, Arthur?”

“Fine, now,” Arthur mumbled, winking at her. She rolled her eyes, batting at his arm, then nudged her side against him, going back to sit in her chair next to Jack by the fire. Arthur turned towards Jake, grinning at him. “Glad to see you’re awake,” he said honestly.

“Thank you,” Jake said earnestly. Sadie had called him the best man she’d ever met, and Arthur could see he was at least a nice person. “None of this feels real,” he confessed, looking around the room, “not the outlaw gang, not the, uh, being alive... nothing.”

Arthur could sympathize. He wouldn’t tell him that it shouldn’t have been real, that Jake should’ve been dead and buried already. “You’re both welcome to stay as long as you need,” Arthur said instead. Davey was asleep in his cot, snoring loudly, and Arthur couldn’t quite believe he was alive, either. John was watching him wearily, and he snorted, walking up to the wounded man where he laid in his own makeshift bed. “Marston,” he said in greeting.

“Morgan,” John returned.

“We’ll be outta’ this cold, soon,” Arthur mused, sitting down in a chair at his bedside, “and then we’ll be back to business as usual, I guess. How’re you feeling?”

“The Reverend’s morphine is keeping me sane,” John muttered, and Arthur had almost forgotten he was drugged. At low doses in order to save their supplies, sure, but John was probably still out of it. “Can’t feel my face, but don’t need to t’know it looks bad.”

“Scars add character,” Arthur assured him, “and we all know you were lacking in it before.”

John snorted, rolling his only exposed eye. “Fuck you, Morgan,” he said, but there wasn’t any bite to his words. Arthur could tell that he was pleased.

Abigail smiled, reaching out to pat Arthur’s knee. “You seem less sour,” she observed, her voice teasing. She squeezed his leg gently, then let him go, folding her hands in her lap. “It’ll be good to get out of these mountains before anyone comes looking for us.”

For all that Arthur knew, the entire Pinkerton Detective Agency could have been killed in a massive avalanche, or massacred by wolves. So much had happened, it wouldn’t have surprised him. “Dutch says I’ll be allowed to work again when we make camp in New Hanover,” Arthur told her.

“I know you get bored cooped up too long,” Abigail said.

“Arthur’s always been a man of action!” Uncle interjected with a wheezy cackle. Cheeks almost as rosy as his nose, Arthur knew that he’d been drinking. Arthur would’ve been angry before, but he’d almost lost most of these people — he was in a patient mood. “Always the first to volunteer, he is.”

“Sure, Uncle,” Arthur drawled.

The door opened again, and Hosea ducked his head inside. His gaze meeting Arthur’s, he raised an eyebrow, beckoning for him to follow him back out into the snow. With a sigh, Arthur stood, rubbing his cheeks and saying his farewells as he left to follow Hosea.

When the door was shut behind them and they were a sensible distance from the building, he turned to him, raising a grey eyebrow skeptically. “So Arthur,” he started slowly, “that O’Driscoll boy...”

“Is seventeen,” Arthur finished. It wasn’t the answer to the question Hosea was asking, but it was what he knew Hosea needed to hear. Hosea’s brown eyes widened in surprise, his expression loosening. “He already told me everything he knows about Colm and his gang,” he assured him, relaxing into Hosea’s touch when the man grabbed his shoulder with a gentle hand, “so I got him fed and warm in there. We don’t torture children, here.”

“No, we don’t,” Hosea agreed firmly.

“He can have my bed,” Arthur offered, “seeing as I don’t want him sleeping anywhere near Bill or Micah, and the other cabin is at capacity for folks.”

Hosea’s patted him on the back. “You’re a good man, Arthur.”

Arthur couldn’t quite believe him.

Dutch and the others returned eventually with stories of an easy, successful heist, and after a small celebration and a speech given by Dutch, Arthur brought his bedroll into his room, sitting down on it as the O’Driscoll boy slept fitfully in the bed. He’d explained everything that happened in the interrogation to Dutch, and was pleasantly surprised when Dutch was equally horrified that the boy was barely seventeen.

Taking out his journal, he drew a portrait of him as he slept, face smushed into the pillow and arms pulling the blankets tightly to his chest. Isaac would’ve been about his age, Arthur realized as he drew him, and it’d taken him effort to not cry as he started to write.

_Turns out, that O’Driscoll boy we captured was just a scared seventeen year old, being starved and shot and beat by unfamiliar men and kept in that cold barn. He’s sleeping with me, for now, and I fear that I’ve accidentally accepted the responsibility of being his caregiver._

_Dutch and the others robbed the Cornwall train, and it went better than the last time. Dynamite went off like it was supposed to, so I guess it was just me who messed up made a mistake last time when I attached the wire. Charles reckons the snow will thaw more tonight, so we’re packing to leave tomorrow for Horseshoe Overlook again, the place that Hosea scouted out._

_I still don’t have the first clue where Kieran is — could’ve been killed, could be down south at Hanging Dog Ranch, I don’t know. Hope he’s staying safe and keeping his head low, wherever he is, but if him not making it means the rest of my family gets out, I’ll settle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone is struggling financially right now, but if you have some money you can spare, consider donating to the Minnesota Freedom Fund and its associated organizations, which helps pay protester’s bails, or to your local hospital to help pay for masks and medical supplies. With everything happening right now in the world, it’s important we help each other where we can, because even if it doesn’t directly help us, it helps our communities, and we’re stronger together than apart.
> 
> On another note, for anyone worried about Kieran, don’t. He’ll be fine. ;)


End file.
